


Till sunbeams find you

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Guardians - Freeform, Multi, Porn Battle, Threesome - F/M/M, dreambubbles are for porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the porn battle: Mom, Dad, and Bro in a dreambubble. <em>Sexily</em>. (And also sadly.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till sunbeams find you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Dream a Little Dream of Me". Thanks to Amy for help with obscure Muppet canon details.

They circle each other, eyes narrowed, feet shuffling. When Strider makes his move, Egbert feels the sting across his chest before he hears the katana slice the air.

Blood wells from the shallow cut, staining his J. Press buttondown. He closes his eyes and wishes away the stain; when he opens them, the blood has vanished (though the pain remains).

"You lose," Strider says. He goes from intensity to apathy instantly; a moment ago, he was lunging, cutting, _fighting_ as if everything depended on his victory. Now, he slumps on a narrow bench across the dojo. He examines a ripped cuticle. "Sucks to be you."

"Indeed," Egbert replies. He applies his handkerchief to his forehead, then his throat. The day is warm and bright. 

He crouches down to retrieve his dropped sword, his back to Strider, who gives out a long, hoarse whistle.

"Back that _right up_."

Egbert chuckles. Strider has been neither shy nor subtle about expressing his appreciation for the ass, but if it's possible, he has become _more_ forthright.

"What's so funny, old man?"

Egbert glances over his shoulder. Strider's arms are up and folded behind his head, which is tipped back. He might be studying the sky; he might be dozing. Impossible to tell with those maddening sunglasses. He looks loose as string, long legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles. 

"I'm hardly decades your senior," Egbert says. It's a mild enough protest.

Strider shrugs elegantly before pushing forward and to his feet. "Old man."

"As you say."

Strider blurs forward and catches his palm against the curve of Egbert's ass. It's a region he'd never given all that much thought to, previously, not beyond the usual matters of hygiene and health. 

"Old man," Strider repeats, his breath hot against Egbert's ear, "fine, fine rump."

"Well, then. Thank --," Egbert gets out, before Strider's kiss meets his open mouth. He is twisted around uncomfortably, but loath to move apart. Strider's grip kneads and spreads his buttock while the kiss deepens, hungry and teeth-scraping. Somehow, in his time here with Strider and Lalonde, he has become more aware of his own body, as if he inhabits his skin differently, as if his skin itself is more charged, more sensitive.

He gasps into the kiss and pushes against Strider, knocking his shoulder into Strider's chest, trying to kiss deeper, feel more, _faster_.

"This is what you call training?" Lalonde asks, then pauses while they stop and start to untangle themselves. She waves her hand dismissively. "Don't _stop_ , just...answer the question."

She stops just out of reach and tilts her head. 

"Cool down?" Egbert says. It isn't a lie so much as an absurdity, but he tries anyway. "Post-sparring cool down."

She laughs, and the sun catches her hair, a blinding blur, as she shakes her head. "That is a singularly piss-poor explanation, dearheart."

He frowns. "I know."

Hand on his shoulder, she kisses his cheek. She smells like Chanel No.5 and ozone, cool and crisp as her white dress; he is suddenly conscious of how sweaty he and Strider are. "Extra credit for effort, however."

As he smiles, relieved, she kisses him more fully, slipping under his arm and pressing up against his side, sliding her hand up his chest to tickle at the skin exposed at his collar.

Strider snorts. "Whatever."

Lalonde slides her free hand, the nails cut sensibly short but painted vibrantly pink, down Strider's arm, then laces their fingers together. "Jealous, baby?"

He snorts again, but does not reply. 

*

At times, Egbert despairs of ever understanding these two. There is so much that moves between them, unspoken and unacknowledged yet as implacable as ocean currents, as tectonics. They remind him of twins, the kind who long ago developed a secret language, incomprehensible to outsiders, but also the kind who compete for every possible victory and advantage.

They undercut and interrupt each other at every opportunity, yet they're closer than anything.

The first night that Strider appeared, Egbert was kneeling on the bed, chest against the mattress, head between Lalonde's thighs. Her nails were in his shoulders, her voice calling and singing and urging. She tightened her thighs around his ears, grabbed his hair, ground up against his mouth. He remembers his head swimming from lack of air, as well as the overwhelming _thrill_ of tasting her and giving her pleasure.

She froze, but did not loosen her grasp on his hair, so he was blind, but could hear her say, "What the _everloving_ fuck, Strider?"

Until that moment, Egbert thought they were alone. Occasionally they see a few monstrous little children, but they never come near. This afterlife is a lonely one, under constant revision; sometimes they wear the wounds that killed them, holes that wheeze when they try to breathe, blood that pools in their shoes and streaks their arms, but at other times, they are clean and fresh as newly minted bills. Wounded or whole, however, they had always been alone.

Until that night, until Egbert heard a man with a thick Texan drawl say, "Got lonely. 'Sup?"

He did not _see_ Strider until the next morning, when he found him at the small table in the breakfast nook with half of the almond-marmalade coffee cake Egbert had baked the previous day in front of him.

"Yo," Strider said, his mouth full of cake, and slapped Egbert's hand in a complicated jive pattern. "Sick eats."

That was, it transpired, a compliment.

*

Egbert wants them both. He doesn't know what sort of afterlife this is, that this desire comes true, again and again, every (false) morning, yet they are all denied their fondest wishes. They scan each small troop of horned children, ask after their own, but no one shares anything. There is no hope to give on that score.

This reality is tenuous, slippery as the surface of soap bubbles. They can wish away small hurts and mishaps, but the majority of their experience is beyond conscious control. It appears to be the product of their individual memories , formed from their assumptions and preferences, frequently to a laughable extent.

When they recently tried to go out for a "date night" -- Egbert used the term sincerely, envisioning a fine meal and entertaining show for the two people who mean the most to him after John, but Strider adopted it as a point of ridicule, and Lalonde rolled her eyes and asked if they'd be stopping at the malt shop after the drive-in -- they found themselves in front of a building that was an unholy Frankensteinian agglomeration of the Metropolitan Opera, the Muppets' playhouse, and the Maple Valley summer stock barn.

"This is the theater?" Lalonde asked, laughter in her voice. 

"Rad," Strider said.

"Perhaps --" Egbert looked around. Behind them, Muppet babies frolicked in the Lincoln Center fountain. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps it isn't so bad inside?"

He was very wrong on that point; they will not let him forget that any time soon.

*

"Hit the shower, stinky boys," Lalonde says, her voice echoing in the empty dojo, and pushes them away lightly. They have no choice but to comply. Not that they want to.

Slightly discomfited by his half-erection, Egbert soaps and scrubs. Strider makes a grab for it when he slips past Egbert under the spray. He's hard, too; the skin on Egbert's hands, his lips, aches at the sight, yearns.

He shakes the water off his head like a dog and towels off, quick and firm. Time enough, later.

Lalonde is waiting for them in the makeshift locker room, her cotton-candy hair gone slightly frowzy in the humidity. She's smirking, and the expression makes Egbert swallow dryly.

Strider snaps his towel at her hip, but she steps clear, heels clicking on the wet tiles. 

"Not even close," she says.

Strider snaps the towel in his hands, leaning toward her, showing his teeth. 

She gives him the middle finger and, after a moment, he shrugs, nods, and turns to Egbert. "She giving you trouble?"

Strider is naked as a jaybird, the water streaming down his lean torso, glinting in the dark hair at his crotch. His dick is thick and twitching.

Lalonde slips her hand across the back of Egbert's neck. There's something comforting in the touch, domineering as it is. She says, "Like the view?"

"Indeed," Egbert replies, but he's looking at her now, into the shadow of her cleavage. Her breasts are magnificent, full as pumpkins, heavy in his palms, succulent to his lips. He balls his fists to keep from touching her with wet hands, which would be ungentlemanly for any number of reasons.

Egbert has a type. Lanky people with smart mouths and cunning smirks, you could say. Geniuses with mischief on their minds and libidos that won't quit. Lonely souls with hearts bigger than they know what to do with.

When he is dry and half-dressed, he takes a moment to wish that there were a bedroom on the far side of the locker room. 

Lalonde tosses a hand-towel at him. "Way ahead of you, bud."

Indeed she is. She opens the door behind her -- its top half is frosted glass, a memory of his high school baseball coach's office door -- and there is not only a bedroom, but a wide bed with rumpled sheets. Strider lies diagonally across it, hand on his dick, hips pumping up. His toes curl into the sheets.

"Apologies for the delay," Egbert says, foregoing the buttoning up of his shirt and doing up of his pants in order to join them in the bedroom. He is still getting his sea-legs when it comes to reality's malleable, capricious qualities. 

Strider, by contrast, seems to have mastered it fully. "Snooze, lose, you know how it goes."

"Silly." Lalonde pushes him lightly down on the edge of the bed; it dips a little when Strider sits up and scoot forward to hold Egbert from behind, mouth on his nape, long, intelligent fingers making short work of his shirt, undershirt, and trouser fly. 

Lalonde steps out of her dress and shakes out her hair. Her slip clings to her breasts, skims her hips, swirls across her thighs. He knows how silky it is, how hot her skin is beneath it, yet she remains, frustratingly, just out of reach; Egbert can only stare at her, reach for her with empty hands, admire her while Strider takes out his dick. His grip is too loose, the motion too slow, and Egbert grunts in frustration.

These two will be the death of him. They _would_ be, that is, were it possible to die all over again.

He bangs his fist on one knee. Strider's chest pushes against his back as he laughs, and Lalonde winks at him before shimmying out of her slip and stepping between his legs. He wraps both arms around her waist and buries his face against her stomach. He holds still just long enough to get his bearings, but then her fingers are tangling in his hair and Strider is speeding his hand, and Egbert snaps back to the moment.

She's wet against his chin as he uses his tongue to open her lips; she cants her hips up, bends her knees, and clutches him in place. Strider has flattened himself against Egbert, teeth on his earlobe, his own dick riding the hollow of Egbert's back as he jerks hard and fast.

"More," she says after a bit, her voice gone husky. She lifts Strider's hand to her mouth and kisses it before pulling him off to the side so she can push Egbert down and climb on top. She straddles him, holding herself just above his erection; he can _feel_ the heat off her. Her scent is smeared across his face and Strider kisses him, licks it off, as he rubs himself lazily into Egbert's hand.

Lalonde sucks in a breath, closes her eyes, and lowers herself. The tension around him now is exquisitely unbearable, pumping down his dick, up his spine, fluorescing out over his skin. His head lolls, little more than a mouth open to Strider's, as he pushes up into her, meets her motions and grinds deeper.

He can hear their voices but the shuffle of bodies distracts him; he has to grab Lalonde's elbows and hold on so he can fuck upwards, ever deeper, until it feels like he must be shoving half his nervous system inside her. It's a twisted, matted mess, stuffing her deep.

Someone pushes his left leg up, foot flat on the bed, then wriggles beneath. Sensation on the back of his thigh tickles, makes him choke on laughter.

He chokes again when he feels a lick across his testicles, then around the base of his dick.

"Careful," Lalonde says, a little shrilly, and Egbert opens his eyes. He hadn't realized they were closed, but there she is, flushed and sweating, squinting at him, her breasts bouncing.

Strider has flipped himself, head buried between Egbert's thighs, mouth on now Egbert, then Lalonde, then Egbert again. Egbert struggles up onto one elbow, folding himself so he can reach Strider's dick. His mouth is dry and sticky, his tongue thick, and the angle is terrible, but when he takes the head between his lips, goosebumps cascade down Strider's thigh and he makes a long, if muffled, approving groan.

This arrangement is precarious, to put it mildly. Here, in bed; here, together. But the moment-to-moment pleasure of this, simple touch and complicated tasting, bouncing and shifting and grunting together, holds them almost in safety. 

Lalonde's fingers grasp Egbert's chest hair as she pushes onto her knees and grinds down; Strider has worked a sticky finger behind Egbert's balls and the loud slurps he makes are beautifully obscene; his cock twitches and slicks down Egbert's tongue.

Later, those two will argue about who came first, who came harder, who made Egbert feel more, better, deeper. 

Right now, however, they writhe nearly as one. Egbert swells past breaking, with gratitude and love, with relief.

They carry him through.


End file.
